


Wilted Roses

by Nekoian



Series: Sewn On [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fickle past of England and Wales. Love, loss, bloodshed and brotherhood. Bleakness and sorrow can sometimes give way to friendship and trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilted Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> The dates are not included in this version yet. If you feel you need them for understanding the time jumps please wait for an updated version. 
> 
> Some of the UK bros names are changed due to the history. Scotland is Alba, Ireland is Éire, Wales is Cymru, but England and France have always bemused me, so they stay as they are. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

Wales feels a moment of panic when England erupts through the door, it’s not unlike when someone pops a pimple, a sting of pain and a blemish that’s soon replaced by a small relief and satisfaction.  
He almost smiles as he rises in his seat to greet his little brother, feeling sure that today might be the day that England will stop striking him with his fists in frustration, or kicking him till the bruises are an ugly unnatural colour. Such a belief is fed by the fact England had been in good spirits earlier, and that the sun is shining, windows cast open and spilling their light onto the rich tapestries that festoon the house.

England, however, doesn’t smile, which is a bad indicator for things to come and Wales immediately sits his arse back down.

“Do you think I’m completely stupid?” The question is deliciously rhetorical, for to answer it is a sure fire way to get a good clap around the ears and a warning not to be so fucking smart. Regardless of the answer being positive or negative or even whimsically neutral, Wales has tried them all and realised that it’s all merely a foil, an excuse for England to lose his temper.

He doubts severely that it’s ever truly directed at him, for England is still young and confused (as are they all) and power is truly a terrible thing. It pollutes and deforms and England seems to feed off old vices, finding only Wales for any sort of relief.

England doesn’t carry on like he normally might, and Wales licks his lips, peering down at his overly bitten fingertips, still ink stained from too much writing and ragged from too much chewing, a habit that he’s always had, but one that’s grown and blossomed, turning his fingers red with sores and making them ache as they attend to any task.

They slowly start to rise to his mouth as anxiety begins to take over again.

“I have no idea Lloger.” Wales manages to say, giving England reason to step into the room leaving the door open. A truly bad sign that makes Wales’ heart start to beat painfully, sending a wave of helpless panic through his limbs, making him tempted to flee, or fight back, or anything.

He only manages to look to England’s hand to check for a weapon, but he see’s something far worse than that.

A bundle of parchments, eerily familiar and eliciting Wales to droop where he sits.

“I see you’re starting to understand where I’m coming from.” England throws the letters onto the desk, several fluttering to the floor, the name signed at the bottom as clear and beautiful as it is horrible.

The name signed there, belongs to Éire.

“I merely wrote to him as a-”

“Save it.” England draws himself up, he’s now taller than Wales, fuller in frame despite still being quite thin and spindly. His mouth pulling itself into a trademark snarl that Wales sees more often than the smile he’d been witness to earlier. “I expressly forbade you from contacting Éire. Yet I managed to intercept these.”

“England, please.” Wales feels himself start to stand, to try and make himself appear bigger, as a cat might begin to puff itself up as a means to startle a hound. “There was no ill intent. He is our brother, Surely even you can-”

“He sends you glad tidings and hope while he offers me nothing but venom and a refusal to submit!” England’s hand comes down on the wood of Wales’ desk so hard that it sends the small pot of ink Wales was using lurching sideways, only saved by Wales’ quick hands and a panicked knowledge that losing that small supply will mean no more ink until England sees fit to replace it.

Which could be never.

“Perhaps if you stopped trying to pressure him, he might-”

“He forced my hand.” England says, rather mournfully, and he brushes his lower lip with a well manicured finger. “Just as you have forced it now.”

“What are you-” Wales is interrupted by England grabbing a handful of his brown hair and yanking him off his seat then marching out the door, out along the corridor and although Wales attempts to fight, his strength has long been sapped by England, his power being drained from the inside out as his Welshmen get forced further and further into the barren hills and mountains.

“Let this be a lesson to anyone who would dare to stand in the way of my might.” England ca’s voice almost echoes and Wales peers around in time to see he’s in the great hall, with a small number of the other countries watching with interest. Each of them is one of England’s rivals.

Scotland included, and the large redhead stands, apparently startled by the sudden interruption of their talks. Though he’s soon cast his eye elsewhere, letting Wales know that even Scotland, who would once have done anything to protect him, has left Wales to his fate as England’s property.

“Angleterre, may I ask what on earth you’re doing?” Frances chimes in, not quite so frantic as Wales would like, more irritated at their meal being interrupted.

“I’m making my point very clear to any of you who might think to challenge me in the near future.” England says, releasing his grip on Wales’ hair, followed by the cold metallic draw of a blade. “That I am not above the slaughter of my own, and that I’ll be less kind to all others.”

Wales realises that England intends to kill him as he’s been promising for years now. He feels strangely welcoming of the fact, until England yanks him closer by the heft of his clothing and drives the metal into his flesh.

The pain is unbearable, causing Wales to shriek out despite his desire to die with quiet dignity.

England then shoves him aside, to fall to the floor like he’s nothing but vermin.

The resounding silence is all that’s left as he manages to peer into England’s face what he feels might be the last time, hoping to glare at his brother and disown him for all the terrible things he’s ever done.

All he see’s there, however, is his younger brothers face, suddenly broken and panicked by what he’s just done. Not malicious. Not enjoying the last gasps of a dying culture nor showing the firm resolution of a man to allow his actions to speak for him.

Just his little brother, who he can’t truly hate. Not even now

England is merely a small child given far too much power and abusing it. Misdirecting his anger and now unsure of himself. A youngster who’d tried desperately to see off his contenders with a show of violence, but hadn’t quite been prepared for the act when he committed it.

Wales grasps at the wound in his chest, not daring to look at it lest it be a great deal worse than it feels.

Then he smiles, which seems to hurt England more than if he’d chosen to curse or beg.

“I’m sorry England.” Wales says, watching as England begins to fight against his own shock and starts to back away from the scene, trying to escape it.

England then turns and marches away, casting his dagger aside at Scotland’s feet as he does so. Leaving the room devoid of much life, as the others have apparently been sickened by it and left.

Leaving only Scotland and France there.

France is quick to leave too, blue clothing making him stand out against the dark reds and greys the house is made of.

“Jesus Christ.” Scotland mutters, eyes settling on the dagger at his feet before falling onto Wales, face filled by a sort of sadness, but a sadness that’s saturated with relief.

Then Scotland bows his head and shakes it before turning on his heel, hiding his face from Wales.

And the realisation hits Wales harder than should be allowed.

His brothers are leaving him to die on the floor.

Wales quickly grasps out at Scotland’s long red cloak, aware that he’s soiled it with his blood. Almost apologises for doing so. “Please, Alba.” Wales begs, tightening his grip on the fabric. “I don’t want to die here by myself.” Tears sting his eyes, still fearing punishment for doing so as the life drains from him, making his sight hazy and his hands tremble, weakening.

Scotland turns his head and gives Wales a small answering frown, one that’s full of regret and helplessness.

Perhaps even with a sense of fear, a fear that goes unvoiced as Scotland seems to force himself to stride away.

Wales hears his own voice call out, “please, Alba, don’t leave me. I need you!” But soon it’s all for nothing.

Scotland and England have abandoned him, leaving only a supply of dark red ink and a wave of tears as companionship.

And Wales wishes he could have spoken to Éire one last time. Told the man how much he loved and needed him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Wales finally finds England he’s knee deep in mud, face ashen and lifeless. Having heard of England’s defeat a good few hours after the conflict was over and marching back to remove the blood from his uniform -and the American bullets from his chest, though those will heal quickly if God be willing- he not had the chance to do either of those, because he’d gotten word that England had never come back.

When posed the question of why nobody had bothered to go out and get him they’d responded with a sort of destitute lack of interest. Not because they’re cruel or heartless men. The British soldiers were probably just too tired and battle weary.

England being the stronger, more stubborn, creature as well as their commander had likely seemed as though he’d be okay. (More likely, England had simply ordered them to leave him alone, leaving Wales as the highest ranked person available to go and fetch him. Though he might have to be careful. England is used to being obeyed, and has been since he first smacked Wales with the handle of his sword and politely asked for complete, utter submission of his soul and everything that he was comprised of.

What England isn’t used to is being talked back to, and even less, defeated. Especially not by America, who Wales is sure England loved like a human man might love a son. It’s an emotion he’s certain they lack to a degree, but it’s the closest he can find to describe it and he see’s some evidence for such a thought on Englands face now.

Hollow and empty and more pained than Wales remembers ever seeing it, even when the pain of guilt sometimes washed across Englands face over his mistreatment of Wales. It’s still nothing compared to this.

Wales feels a little jealous, yet swallows it down and gently kneels, patting England’s shoulder and trying to blink out the small spikes of rain that seem predestined to sting his eyes and chill his body.

“England,” Wales says, trying to haul England to his feet, feels his wounded chest scream in agony as he does so, but ignores it the best he can. “You must come along, if you die you’ll take me with you.”

“What’s the point?” England lashes his arm away from Wales’ already weak grip and allows himself to drop back onto the ground, the muck is thick enough that Wales’ boots barely want to move from it and England’s legs might actually be stuck there for all they know. “I lost, badly.”

“You only lose if you’re dead.” Wales offers, giving up on moving his brother and flopping down onto the ground, aware that his musket is broken, yet still lingering in his grip lest he have to defend himself. Likely by beating an assailant to death with it. “The United Kingdom still stands. Glory to the monarchy and all that.”

England makes an indignant noise. “Screw the bloody monarchy. Screw the Kingdom. Screw you all.”

Wales isn’t really sure why England’s words don’t surprise him, but he feels less angry and more aware of the carnage around them.

“And what of your men? If you talk like that they all died for nothing.” Wales says, peering into the sky to see if maybe the clouds will part and sun will shine upon them, lifting their spirits ever higher till they’ve regained their power and position. “Surely you don’t love some wayward boy more than your own.”

“Of course not.” England snorts with dry, unamused laughter. “Don’t be absurd.”

The rain doesn’t stop, but England does turn his eyes towards Wales, hair clinging to the side of his face and bottom lip wavering slightly.

“Come now, little brother,” Wales offers, shuffling closer and resting his tired head on England’s shoulder, they’re only as strong as each other and England’s body trembles under the strain. “One loss does not an empire fall.”

England seems a little heartened by this. But not by much.

“The Empire will never fall, Wales,” England coughs then pushes himself to his feet, seemingly to get away from Wales who feels his own body stick fast in the muck. “But it has taken a significant knock.”

Wales is reminded fleetingly of Rome as England stands bloodied and torn in the rain, feels like some echo is washing over them, repeating and whispering a warning in their ears.

A warning Wales opts against taking, because he can see now how the bullets have entered England’s chest, almost mirroring his own, seeping just as painfully. Though England hides his pain better as he extends his hand out for Wales to take, which he does.

“I suppose we’d best be getting back to London.” Wales feels his shortened brown hair start to overflow with water that drips into his eye.

“I suppose if we must.” England’s eyes then trail downwards, to where Wales knows a massive patch of blood has formed, starting to blacken from the musket fire and bayonets cut down the British troops. “Good Lord, Wales, you’re injured.”

'We all are England, yourself included though you seem not to have noticed.”

England looks down at himself, apparently having missed his injuries, likely because of the adrenaline, sorrow and the blood red uniform has hidden the ever darkening stain. “By Jove, look at what that little bastard did to us.”

“Lost an entire platoon further on up.” Wales laments quickly. “We didn’t realise the fighting was done till long after.”

England frowns and claps Wales tenderly on the shoulder. “Thank you, Wales.” Though England doesn’t specify what he’s thankful for, Wales gets the feeling it’s an all encompassing sort of gratitude, considering Wales might easily have walked off the battlefield and left England to face Americas -newly found- might all on his own, with only the reluctant Scotland as backup.

Speaking of Scotland, Wales suddenly realises that he’s still vastly unaccounted for, and feels a prickle of worry edge along his spine and form in his scalp.

“Let’s get going, shall we?” England says, finally moving, when Wales watches carefully, he sees England deflate as he moves. Though his musket is carried in the standard way, a sign of underlying pride and unrelenting strength that is incredibly admirable to the Welshman’s tired eyes.

He’s more than happy to follow in his brothers stead, and to share in his misery if it so calls for it.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wind is howling that night, strong enough that the trees creak and groan under the strain. Even the walls of their mud hut, which seemed so sturdy a few hours before, almost buckles with the force of it.

England hides under the fur blanket, staying close to the fire to ease his sense of isolation and loneliness. It doesn’t stop his breath surging into his chest, making his innards hurt and his senses tingle with oversensitivity.

A loud crash makes him hide his face, scrunching his eyes closed until they ache and sending tears streaking down his cheeks.

Though it’s not a new sensation, his brothers always leave him behind because he’s too small or slow, he begs them silently to return and add strength to the small fortification.

England only has his small stuffed bunny for comfort, one he clutches close and hides from Alba, should it ever be discovered and stolen.

It takes his brothers hours to return, and by the time they have, the darkness has taken over, awakening the terrifying creatures of the night into a choir of screeches and howls. As much as England hates his brothers for leaving him alone, he still staggers to his feet and rushes over to greet them, their bodies saturated with mud and the blood of the animal they’ve killed.

“I was scared.” England admits when they’ve gotten to work on their cooking.

Cymru arranges their weapons neatly against the wall while Alba strips the meat of it’s skin and fur.

“I thought there were monsters.” England coaxes, edging closer to Alba in search of some comfort, he finds himself only in shadow. “They might have eaten me.”

“Don’t be soft.” Alba doesn’t look up from his work, merely gets to his feet and walks away, ignoring England’s pained expression. “There are no monsters out here.”

“None that can harm us.” Cymru carries on, his voice low and wiry, sounding tired and frustrated.

“Tend to the fire, England.” Alba studies Cymrus work for a moment, then lashes out with his hand, the sound of punishment ringing in England’s ears. “You only have one job to do.”

Cymru shrinks to his smallest and gets to work rearranging everything, then he slips off his slew of arrows and leaves them exactly as he likes them, making a point to study the ends of each, the tension of his beloved bow and then his own fingers which look raw and calloused.

“I don’t like staying here by myself.” England mumbles, stuffing an extra log into the fire and watching it burn, feeling his anger smoulder alongside as Alba gets back to work on preparing their meal. “Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because you’d only slow us down.” Albas eyebrows slant downwards. “I can’t afford the risk.”

“Risk of what?” England carefully scuttles over to their cauldron of water, fills a small bowl to the brim. Transporting it over to where Alba sits, his knife slicing through tendon and spilling blood over his tunic.

Alba doesn’t answer, merely sets his kill aside and gets to work washing his hands off, then his face, showing off his freckles and a small cut that’s slashes across his cheek.

“I could be just as good a hunter as Cymru if you gave me a chance.” England announces, then he draws his tiny flint blade from the woven belt that holds his tunic tight. “Better than him if I wanted.”

Alba casts England a small indifferent frown before pushing him away.

"You’re no good for anything.” Cymru’s voice rattles from his chest and rasps against his teeth like a snarling animal. “You’re just a baby.”

“I am not.” England puffs himself up, making a point to glower and place his hands on his hips like a real hero might. “I can be just as good as you.”

“You’re still afeared of the dark.” Cymru lashes out with his hands, and England collides with the floor, feels the back of his head sting. “You’ll never be big enough to do anything right.”

England looks to Alba in hopes of assistance, but he merely regards the two with a shake of his head then eases his face away.

This seems to get under Cymrus skin a little deeper and makes his fists tighten, his whole body shaking until his foot drives itself into England’s chest and sends him rolling against the weathered walls, his back searing with pain.

“I’m bigger than you!” Cymru declares, then he sniffs slightly, the anger sliding off his face as quickly as it came replaced by desperation. “You should do as I say!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There’s a heavy clang of metal on metal as France’s sword slams mercilessly into England’s, forcing him to his knees and making his arms tremble with the strength of his older, bigger opponent. He refuses to back down, throws himself sideways, making Frances sword slice into the ground.

The respite doesn’t last long, the Frenchman’s brightly coloured cloak flutters out behind him as he recovers and gets back on the offensive, leaving a nasty gash across England’s shoulder and forehead.

There’s another loud ringing as England’s sword is knocked hard from his fingers, sending it skittering away, his hands now throb painfully, warning of a break or dislocation. His wrist hurts too, but not as much as staring into Frances smug, self satisfied face. His blonde hair catching on the wind and making it drift out majestically.

He hates that smug smile.

More than that, England hates France with every inch of his being. He lets France know this with a resolute glare. Disallowing himself to shiver when Frances sword edges closer to his throat.

“It would seem the mighty England has fallen to his knees.” The sarcasm comes thick and fast and England does the only thing he can think of, spitting the collected moisture from his mouth at his most hated rival.

The fact it’s laced with blood, leaving a pale smear down Frances face and dripping onto his rather scuffed up uniform doesn’t bode well for England’s position. Yet even when he’s feeling so terrified he knows that showing it will only hurt more and he smirks at Frances angry scowl.

That scowl is something genuinely ugly, so rare that it must be savoured.

France raises his sword, apparently getting ready to cut England down to size.

Death is most certainly not on the cards, but it’ll bloody hurt and England knows it. Even he has to instinctively close his eyes and grit his teeth in preparation for the blow.

The streaking pain never comes, but Frances loud scream of pain does make England pry his eye open in time to see the Frenchman clutching his hand, blood dripping from a wound, a single arrow plunged into the ground a few feet away.

“I recommend you keep away from my little brother.” Cymru appears on the scene like a spectre, his armour scuffed and dirty from the fighting, his bow loaded and aimed directly at France.

The offending Frenchman is too surprised to pay attention at first. The first move his makes is to stare at his cut hand and frown at it. “Ah, Cymru, I’d forgotten about you. I thought you’d have more sense.”

“Step away, France. I’ll loose this arrow, swear to almighty God.”

France doesn’t comply, he grasps up his sword in his good hand and turns slowly on his heel, focusing his energy on Cymru, who is still a good measure smaller than him, but England does see some fear glint in Frances blue eyes.

For very good reason.

Cymru could likely separate France from both his eyes with that bow. His reputation for being the finest archer in the world is a well deserved title.

England feels his confidence come back. “Shoot him, Cymru!”

“Get out of here, France. There’s no victory for you today.” Cymru pulls the string of his bow back a touch more tightly. There’s a streak of blood dribbling down his chin and his fingers look raw from drawing his favourite weapon repeatedly.

Frances grip on the sword in his hand tightens, “I am not losing this battle to you and your toy.” France surges forward with speed that should be lost to him. It’s a poor choice to make, as Wales releases his grip on the arrow and the whole world slows down as the shaft cuts through the air, Striking France in the chest.

A deeply painful wound, but not fatal. It sends France tumbling to the ground, landing on his knees with a hiss of pain. Leaving Wales to stride forward, his form looking ridiculous in the heavy armour of the archer, but to England he looks magnificent, even with his hair all cut short and fear playing on his face like a lamb in a field. His chest heaves and breath rumbles out of him like a wounded animal, but England is still grateful for his big brothers assistance to a degree.

"I thought you’d run away.” England almost takes a cheerful run towards his brother, delighted as he is to see him. It does take the sting away from his hands and brings an impulsive, hard to combat smile to his face. A smile that’s soon cut from him when France takes their lack of focus and quickly makes one last hard swipe with his sword, rendering Cymrus bow into two pieces and removes a decent portion of his unprotected arm.

How France managed to do such a thing speaks volumes for his strength. Though England is too stunned to verbalise anything other than a muted squeak.

Even Cymru looks too stunned to process the injury he’s just received, his eyes merely widening and glazing over as all rational thought slips away. Soon those eyes start to swim with tears and England feels complete fury sink deep into his veins, surging hard and fast as he quickly goes for his sword.

His fury takes France completely off guard, or perhaps it’s the fact England is defending Cymru at all that surprises him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

England nestles his head against Cymrus shoulder, his eyes feel heavy and his feet ache from the long hike Alba had taken them on in order to collect food for the evening. Pickings have been slim as of late, and even Éire is complaining of hunger pains, despite the fact he requires the least amount of food between them.

The catching of a few small trout and the baking of some tasteless bread is all they have to comfort themselves.

That and Éires wooden flute, which he plays as he sits by the fire, casting the notes into the flames, allowing them to rise into the sky and likely carry for a few miles on the still night air.

Alba pauses in the sharpening of his sword to flick the cooking bread over and the movement sends embers fluttering gracefully along with Éire’s music.

The orange flickers look like tiny fairies to England’s tired eyes. Ones that flutter and twist in a sorrowful dance as they prepare for their quick and inevitable deaths.

The music stops for a second and Éire casts his eyes upwards. It seems like he’s just now sensing the heavy thunderstorm that England’s felt since the early evening started to fade and the sun started to kiss the earth. Such a phenomena isn’t unusual. Eire’s not quite on the same wavelength as the land around him, and while he still reads things faster than most, his senses are still dull in comparison to his younger brothers when he’s on their stretch of land.

“Looks like a storm is blowing in.” Then Éire puts the flute back to his lips and continues to play, though he allows the tone to become brighter and more uplifting where it had been a little dreary and depressing a mere moment ago.

England’s often asked his older brother to teach him how to play, but each time gets ignored or dismissed. The burning pain this emotion stirs in his tummy makes him curl his fingers into Cymru’s tunic and attempt to try and dig his fingernails into the older boys skin, a fitting punishment for being Éire’s favourite.

At least in England’s opinion

The grip of Cymru’s hand tightens on England’s side, as if trying to ease him closer and sap the heat from his body. The little blonde allows it though, going to the effort of tugging his big brothers brat a little tighter around himself to conserve as much warmth as possible.

“Bad weather is just our luck.” Alba pivots his own head upwards now too, though he obviously knew about the shift in climate a long time ago. “Hopefully it won’t make the sea too rough for you to go home.” Then Alba sets his eyes back to his blade and begins the act of running his whetstone over the dull metal resumes, adding a dangerous sounding squeal to the soft echoing tune of Éire’s music.

Éire doesn’t respond to the question, as if making a point not to until it suits him, and even when he does remove his lips from the flute, he first casts his eyes out over the grass and rocks and into the swathes of forest before he lifts a fish by it’s stick in his dexterous fingers. “I suppose we’ll see when the time comes.”

Then Éire seems to deem the fish as sufficiently cooked and hands it to Cymru along with a portion of the flatbread.

“We can go hunting tomorrow before you leave.” Alba says as Éire hands him a slightly larger fish and the other half of the flatbread. “I can show you that I’m better than you.”

Éire grins and casts his arm around his brothers shoulder. “You can’t show me something that isn’t true.” He says, then Alba digs his elbow into the taller boys ribs in a bid to get rid of him.

It only makes Eire cling a little tighter.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All pet stores smell the same in England’s opinion. The smell of sawdust and sadness intermingled with bleached out cages and stagnant water. He’s sure they all also have the same annoying bell in them that chimes when the door is opened. Even the same soundtrack of chirping birds and bubbling air filters seems identical regardless of what petshop he finds himself in.

England does allow his annoyance to peter out as he reminds himself that this one little excursion does make up for the fact that he hasn’t seen Wales for a good while and indulging his older brothers eccentricities is much more pleasant than listening to him gripe and moan about how nobody loves or respects him anymore.

(England isn’t sure when Wales ever got the impression he wa eve loved or respected, but correcting such a claim is more trouble than it’s worth and as such he merely nods and attempts to look somewhat empathetic each time Wales harps on about it.)

Next years St Davids day plans will revolve around sending Wales a card or something, maybe a leek and daffodil bouquet or a tea towel commemorating the event . England even considers this as his eyes wander down to a collection of rabbits in a spacious cage on the floor, becoming entranced by their little noses and floppy ears.

Wales’ appearance beside him doesn’t even pull him from this stupor until his brothers willowy voice breaks through the otherwise unruffled soundtrack of the shop. “You should get yourself a rabbit.” He says leaning down and poking a finger through the wire mesh. “It could keep you company.”

England hopes the black and white creature will take a sizable chunk from his brothers finger, but it merely sniffs the intruding appendage then hops away from it and England is genuinely disappointed. “You know I can’t stand animals.” He turns on his heel in a bid to not indulge Wales for any longer than should be allowed. “What exactly are we doing here anyway? I was under the impression we were getting lunch then going home.”

“I just wanted to look around.” It has to be said that Wales’ idea of a good time is rather questionable, but perhaps still better than anything France might think to do. The Welshman rises again and studies a curious mouse that peers it’s beady little eyes at him before scuttling away to hide in a cardboard tube.

“Next year I’ll take you to the zoo, shall I?” England rolls his eyes and watches the same little mouse poke it’s nose out of the tube, only to dash over to the glass and stare at him with what England takes to be murderous intent. “If you hunker down I might be able to convince them you’re five years old, considering that’s the age you act most of the time.”

Wales ignores this and coos the mouse lovingly, seeming to find something endearing about it’s red eyes and white fur that England thinks looks horrifying. After this he turns to England, smiles faintly before beginning his slow wander to the area England knows his brother has wanted to look at since they arrived. “Do you suppose I should get a pet?” he sounds very much like he might be asking England’s permission as he stops in front of the wall of bird cages.

“What on earth would you want a pet for?” England folds his arms as he wanders closer to his brother and screws up his nose at the sight of the feathered creatures, “smelly, horrid things that eat into your time and budget.”

“I thought a little animal might be good company.” Wales frowns at the collection of birds, a group of bored looking budgies that take no real interest in him whatsoever. “Since I never see Angus or Oliver these days and you’re always off globetrotting.”

England opens his mouth to comment on the fact that he still see’s Wales more than should be allowed, -once a month being an over prescription in anything Welsh as far as he’s concerned- and that a bird seems like a poor replacement for even Scotland as far as England can tell. Considering they seem incapable of talking back, blowing smoke in your face or randomly smacking you around. He stops himself though, instead watching as Wales sidesteps across to a cage full of equally lethargic looking canaries, a sea of yellow feathered powder-puffs, only for a single bright red one to skitter cross it’s perch, chirp at Wales and spin around in excited circles.

The little bird even starts to chirrup back when Wales happily begins talking to it, slipping between a mixture of Welsh and English so erratic that he sounds like he might actually be broken.

A smile plucks at the corner of England’s mouth and he feels it stick that way despite how he forces it not to. There’s just something about the look of a genuine smile on Wales’ face that seems so bright and elusive that it’s contagious.

He even feels the cogs in his brain start to turn and whirl on their hinges as he steps closer. Regarding the canary carefully. It’s a handsome enough looking bird and somehow it reminds England very much of Wales -excitable, singsong voice and capacity to chirp itself into circles- but with a more exciting colour scheme.

“Isn’t he beautiful, Arthur?” Wales mutters, flicking his eyes to England and then back to the canary. “Just look at the colour of his feathers.”

“How do you know it’s a male?” England peers at the animal, seeing no outward clues that he can make out besides the colour and outward excitability.

“Only the males sing.” Wales answers in a know-it-all tone and a soft nudge to England’s arm.

England has no idea why Wales knows such a piece of information off the top of his head and gets ready to cry foul. Instead he sighs mournfully and feels awash with soppiness over how clear it’s becoming that Wales knows such a thing because a pet bird is the one thing the man wants.

Such is the inanity of Wales’ existence, England supposes.

“If I get it for you can I avoid doing this from now on?” England asks with a snort and a sneer that helps mask any affection he actually feels and Wales seems to take a long time to soak the question in, his eyebrows crinkled in confusion when he finally turns his head in England’s direction.

“You know I can’t have a pet in my apartment. The landlord would kill me.”

“Jesus, Dylan, if you were any wetter you’d be able to drink yourself.” England scoffs, as he casts his eyes around, looking for a price tag, if only to break any eye contact he might make with Wales. “I doubt a single bloody bird will get you evicted.”

“But, Arty, I only came in here to look. I didn’t mean for you to-”

“Do you want him or not?” England snaps, impatience causing the words to crack like a whip

Wales looks physically pained by his own indecision before a look of guilt overtakes his soft features, one that England takes to mean the sort of ‘yes’ you only get from somebody who isn’t sure they’re being toyed with or not.

England might find such a thing insulting if not for the fact that Wales hardly ever gets real presents from anybody and thus such a suspicion seems justified regardless of who offers him anything.

“Right then. Happy, fucking, Saint David’s day.” England mutters, making up Wales’ mind for him and clapping his older brother on the shoulder, making sure to do it a little too hard lest it be misinterpreted as a show of affection

Then he escapes to make the purchase.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alba’s absence for the evening inspires England to set aside his usual chores and to get to work mending the toy rabbit he’d made for himself from scraps of torn clothing that was otherwise beyond repair. He enjoys the smell of cooking flatbread and meat and the sound of bubbling stew as it sits over the fire. Even the smell of burning wood and dry grass is somehow more comforting than usual.

He is however drawn from his sewing every now and again by the sound of Cymru’s hacking cough or a muttered complaint about something that’s likely happening to him in his restless dreams

Sometimes England is tempted to wander over and waken his older brother, or check and see if his fever has dropped any. He’s reluctant to do so because the sickness hasn’t slowed Cymrus hands and he’s been lashing out with more ferocity than usual. Even so, England can’t help himself but shift closer to the fire and ponder what could possibly be wrong with Cymru.

Alba has made some allusions to Cymru being torn up by a war, or the fact he stands alone, having taken the names of his siblings. England doesn’t really understand, but he is aware that Cymru has changed since they last saw each other. His blonde hair has darkened to a rather more dreary brown and his whole body which was once round and doughy is now slim and wispy, like a small bird.

A sparrow, England decides, is what Cymru resembles most. A very sick sparrow.

“England,” Cymrus voice cuts through the air, matching the crackle of the flames as they flicker at the centre of their mud hut. One they share on and off as they feel the need to come and go from it. Drawn to it like the tide is drawn to the shore, then vanishing again to their own homes. Cymru is sitting up on the meagre bed of furs and straw. His long brown hair sticking out in ridiculous tufts. Skin pale and slick with sweat. He shivers slightly yet makes no effort to draw the warm pelt around his body as he talks, the words are brittle and lacking in the sweetness that England finds so familiar. “Bring me some water.”

England almost complains about the severe lack of politeness, but there’s hardly any point. He can see that Cymru won’t apologise, and possibly not even understand such a complaint to begin with. England merely rises to his feet and walks towards the metal cauldron they use for storing water, it’s handles formed into two hefty bulls, and the whole thing far too heavy for England to carry. He can only fill a simple clay pot and totter over to his sibling. Sliding the container into his shaking hands and watching as he drinks it down, spilling most of it down his chin and front.

England leans his arms on the bed and takes in Cymrus appearance. There’s a patch of colour on his cheek where he’s been lying and his head seems like it might be a little heavy for him, considering how he rocks gently. “How are you feeling?”

The answer comes after a brief period of silence, then Cymru plops a hand onto England’s head and runs his fingers through his hair in what seems like a mutilated show of affection. “Do you know where Alba is?” Cymru enquires with a soft yawn. “Has he left us too?”

“He went to get you some medicine from the sea nation.” England points in the direction he thinks the sea might be in, though it’s only a rough guess. “For your fever.”

“I thought he had died.” Cymru bows his head and begins to wipe at his eyes like they’re suddenly very itchy.

“No,” England takes the cup when Cymru holds it out to him and sets it aside. “He said the Northerners would have what you need and went off to talk to them.” Though England suspects that Alba had merely grown bored of hanging around, waiting for Cymru to get better. Considering that health cannot be physically beaten into a person. This theory is what that England keeps in mind, lest he ever imagine Alba has some capacity towards care.

“Is Éire here?”

The question stabs a sliver of annoyance into England’s heart and twists it, though if it shows on his face, Cymru is far too hazy to notice. Instead of voicing his complaints he shakes his head. “He left weeks ago.”

“So it’s just us?” Cymru peers all around the hut, his eyes never settling or focusing, as if trying to locate something he’s lost and desperately needs. “We’re all alone?”

“That’s right.” England nods firmly and a folds his arms tight. “And because you’re sick, I’m in charge.”

Cymru’s eyes move towards England and soften into sadness. Knees drawing up to his chest, making him seem much smaller and more fragile. “Where’s mother? I want to see her.”

“Mother isn’t here either, Cymru.” England feels his expression tighten, as if the words hurt some deeply held part of his spirit. “She died a long, long time ago.”

“That’s not possible.” Cymrus shoulders start to tremble, his breathing becoming heavy and laboured. “I saw her; she was right here.”

England stretches his hand out to touch his brothers shoulder, to attempt some show of comfort and understanding only to have it painfully smacked aside. The feeling of blossoming resentment returns for a short time, until the choked sobbing of his brother fills the hut, drowning out the crackle of the fire and sucking out the comfortable warmth that had settled there.

It’s been a long time since England saw Cymru cry, tears usually hidden behind eyes that only grow glossy and settle on the ground. He’s not sure what to say or do and gently wipes his own eyes, because somehow the tears seem contagious and England refuses to give in to them. “You should eat something.” England stands up and strides purposefully towards the fire, lifting a small portion of bread and some meat then returning to his brothers side.

Cymru regards the meal with disinterest and a measure of annoyance. “My tummy hurts.” he looks away from the food and flops back onto his side as if all the life has suddenly left his body.

The sudden dismissal of his thoughtfulness once again causes anger to rise in England, but Cymrus fever has proven to be the single most powerful force in the world when it comes to ignoring his brothers attempts at arguing with him or riling him up. As such England merely sets the meagre meal aside, clambers onto the bed and under the covers, tugging it around them so Cymru will keep warm as Alba specifically instructed before he marched away.

Cymrus body feels cold when England nestles closer, but the skin across his brow is heavy with heat and the icy sweat that Cymru has broken out in makes England shiver when Cymru cuddles him close, his grip surprisingly tight and protective despite his earlier weakness.

“I miss Mother too,” England nestles his head against Cymrus chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath his clammy skin, “do you think she’d like me?”

Cymru doesn’t answer right away, but the silence has a kindness to it, a thoughtful warmth that helps make England’s eyes start to droop and his head start to swim with sleep.

“I think Mother would have loved you very much.” Cymru says, then he pulls the pelt around them a little tighter and draws his body up, as if he might be shielding England from attack.

“Cymru?” England hears his brother give a small noise of interest. “Can I tell you a story?”

Cymrus laugh is thin and affirming and he shuffles slightly so he can hear his little brother better. “I’d like it very much if you did.”

This makes England consider the stories he’s heard over and over again and he decides to make up his own, even if his voice is now weighted with a yawn.

“There was once a brave warrior.” England starts, as he believes all the best stories do. “And one day he met a dragon. The dragon looked to him sadly. ‘Why are you so sad?’ The warrior asked. The dragon looked towards the sky and began to cry.

‘I’m sad because I’m in love with the moon.’”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hesitant creak of the door as he opens it forces Wales to grit his teeth, muscles tensing. His whole body relaxes only when a few minutes have passed. It’s merely a sense of impatience in his own cowardice lingering in his fingertips that holds him back. He gets to work chewing the feeling away by biting his already short fingernails. The room is as uninviting as it had been when he first stepped into it this morning with a cheerful smile slathered on his face and a warm bowl of porridge perched beside a cup of tea and a dainty vase with a rose in it.

The curtains are still as closed as they had been then, barely letting in the scrap of light that might still lurk outside and the whole room stinks of idleness due to the windows being firmly shut. Not only that, but the temperature is formidably low because Wales hasn’t been able to light the fire since his little brother took up his solitary moping session earlier in the month. Wales’ main reason for thinking this is the fact that the porridge is still where he originally placed it on the table. The bigger sign is that even the tea has gone untouched, and the rose seems to have wilted somewhat.

Wales swallows the impatient sigh at the sight of his brother, whose only movement appears to have been that his left leg is now crossed over his right as opposed to the other way around, and his eyes have grown a touch frostier.

A quick smile is all Wales attempts to do, but he can feel it grow overly tight on his face. “I came to see if you’d like some dinner,” his smile thins to nothing in the answering silence of their once warm and cosy living room. “It’s soup.” Any hope Wales might have felt that his leek and potato broth might serve to snap England from his stupor is lost, because all England does in response is deliver a single dirty look and a noise that demands nothing but solitude.

The unspoken demand twists the air from Wales’ lungs, forcing him to lift the tray with the porridge and cold tea on it in a bid to look somehow more useful, like his entire reason for being there cannot possibly be argued with.

He faintly remembers that the room was much nicer when it had its handsome bookcases and comfortable sofa which have all vanished in England’s ever deepening self pity over the loss of America.

Some of the furniture couldn’t be rescued, because England spent a few evenings taking to articles of it with an axe before his energy had run low, eventually sitting his arse on his favourite wingback, where he remains, silent and still.

Wales can faintly hear the front door closing, signalling Scotland’s return from his long walk. The sound makes England droop into his chair, his eyebrows to sink on his face and his mouth to open, mouthing what looks like a few choice swears. Wales assumes they must be aimed at either Scotland or Wales himself. The thought causes Wales’ fingers to tighten around the tray. He can’t quite work up the forward momentum he needs to start speaking again, but he feels too guilty to leave. He can only stand a few feet away from his brother and soak in the dreary atmosphere that contradicts the warm, sunny weather he’s attempted to enjoy in the garden by himself. There wasn’t much enjoying to be had with the knowledge that England was sulking in here. In fact, it made the writing of any summer inspired music an impossibility.

A buzzing in Wales’ throat is the first signal Wales has that he’s about to say something, he can’t even find the capacity to stop himself because he’s wanted to say something for so long. “Do you want to talk about it, England?” Is what dribbles thoughtlessly from his mouth.

England doesn’t respond, not right away, merely leans his head in his hand and draws his mouth tight even as his posture sinks and buckles. 

The movement is followed by a brief, mournful sigh that Wales can feel deep in his heart. Summoning within him a surge of brotherly affection that almost makes his fingers loosen and drop the tray. The purpose for such a reaction is one Wales tries to blot from his mind.

Silence looms between them, eventually burying Wales’ desire to hug his little brother and assure him that everything will be fine. Wales even gets himself ready to turn and walk away, safe in the knowledge that he can come back in fifteen minutes and try again, though he’ll be leaving soup to go cold in place of Scotland’s stodgy porridge which the bastard hasn’t even cleaned from the large pot in the kitchen.

Scotland’s porridge is delicious when fresh, but after a while it seems to turn into granite making Wales wonder how on earth it doesn’t do damage to their insides. The thought that it might be useful as a building material is cut short by England rising in his seat and finally turning his eyes towards Wales, his mouth opening a crack.

England’s eyes are underlined by dark rims and so badly bloodshot that the possibility he’s not been sleeping goes from a suspicion to a very firm fact. His first attempt at speaking is laughably hoarse and dry. Hardly a surprise considering the man hasn’t opened his mouth in at least a few days.

(The last time had been to tell Scotland off for leaving the living room door open, claiming that he was letting the heat out. The heat, however, was likely in England’s imagination considering the rest of the house is at least five degrees warmer.)

The next attempt at talking is much improved by England loudly clearing his throat and sucking in a breath. The effort of asking makes England almost slump back in his seat, “what did I do wrong, Wales?” He seems to regain his composure, however, and sits straight up, curling his fingers together and eyeing Wales expectantly.

Wales considers that expression carefully before answering. Tempted to tell England he did nothing wrong at all and make him feel better. It is however, not the entire truth. “You expected him to stay,” Wales says, feeling his frown seep onto his face as his brother starts to rap his fingers on the armrest of his wingback. “But you know what they say, England.”

England’s voice is sharper now, a hint of the Englishman’s long practiced indigence returning. “And what would that be?”

The china on the tray rattles as Wales shifts his weight, finding it hard to keep his hands still and calm as he answers. Wales hates himself for the saccharine words before he can even start. “If you love something, let it go.”

England glowers in response, his teeth baring like a feral dog in what looks like an attempt to cover up a deep and heartbroken frown. “And what if it doesn’t come back, Wales, what then?”

“Well,” Wales says, considering the quandary he’s walked into. “Then I suppose you can only learn from your errors and carry on.”

England’s snarl grows on his face, looking like he might spring from his chair and throttle Wales for simply existing.

Wales sets the tray down carefully and steps closer, resting his hand on England’s head. His hair is thick with grease and Wales tries his best to ignore the fact that England smells less pleasant than he normally does. A lack of hygiene isn’t Wales’ first concern considering England hasn’t moved from this spot in such a long measure of time and he carries on, voice soft and soothing as he can make it go. “You raised America well,” Wales assures. Then he feels England softly lean against his hand, like a child might lean against his mother when he’s grown too tired to support himself. “He’ll be a great country. You should be very proud of yourself.”

England takes a moment to chew this over before he drives his fingernails into the wooden armrests like a set of talons and pushes himself up. He doesn’t smile at Wales, merely considers him with a sterile glint in his eyes. The closeness of England’s proximity allows Wales to see finally just how bloodshot his brothers eyes really are. The red lines trail around the whites like small rivers and the dark bags are a touch puffier than Wales expected them to be.

It seems like England might hit him for a brief second, and Wales prepares himself mentally for the blow. He tenses his chest muscles till they’re as tight and formidable as Scotland’s grip on a sum of money. (Regardless of how much he might owe you the money, you’ll never get it.) Instead England drifts past, his feet moving with such softness that Wales thinks his brother might be made of paper.

Wales is at least pleased that England has finally moved and feels his sense of optimism return for the first time in a good while.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

England staggers out of the great hall, furiously swiping tears from his eyes. He’s beginning to hate responsibility, wishes he didn’t have to stand alone. His back connects with the stone wall of the house. He becomes aware of France and Scotland walking down the corrider. He dips behind one of the larger tapestries on the wall, one that’s decorated by a woman petting the nose of a unicorn, while hellfire threatens to consume them both.

“I cant believe Angleterre would do something like that.” Frances voice sounds slightly shaken. “There’s nothing anyone can do, is there, Ecosse?”

“Doubt it.” Scotlands heavier footsteps slow slightly, pausing and peering behind him, like he might be tempted to head back and see if he can do something. “It’s not as if we expected Wales to last, just never expected England to be so direct about it.”

“England is growing up to be a real monster.” Frances words sound far too heavy in England’s ears, he can barely hold in his flurry of angry protests. Chooses to remain hidden lest Scotland try and enact revenge upon him.

“He’ll be all by himself now,” Scotland’s voice ripples with some horrid satisfaction, “it’s as much as he deserves for all the things he’s done to the rest of us.”

“I still feel terrible for poor Wales, but I can’t bare to watch him suffer any longer.” Scotland’s arm loops around Frances shoulder, only for France to struggle against it. “I’ll have to send word of this to the mainland.”

“I suppose I’ll have to let Éire know.” Scotland sounds almost hesitant about it. “I imagine he’ll finally get off his arse and do something once I do.”

When Scotland and Frances voices are too far away to understand, England pushes his way free from the tapestry, staring into the vivid colours and feeling a cold sweat start to leak down his neck and face. Somehow, he can’t imagine the unicorn without the lady and the idea that they’d been prepared to face hell had seemed so much less of a horror because they’d have been together.

England feels regret start to eat into him, realising much too late that Wales was the one person he needed, the one person who’d always stood by him. Though he still struggles against something malicious, something that’s glad Wales will soon be gone, the feeling of childish loneliness returns. This time it aches and sends tears streaming down his face and forces a scream from his lungs that saps him of his strength and makes his body drop to the floor on it’s knees.

There’s a pain that cuts through his chest, one he thinks he’s imagining until his hand wanders to the area, greeted by a vile warm liquid.

When England looks to his long fingers they’re stained with blood. A mixture of his own and that of his older brother.

The sight of it makes England’s heart almost stop. Feels his bond with Wales tighten, their magic starting to collide as Wales’ life starts to flow into England, while England’s old life dribbles from the fresh wound in his stomach.

The feeling is horrible, the pain too great. He can’t bear the realisation that Wales will be feeling even worse, that horrible pain will be like agony, that cold feeling leeching into England’s skin will be like ice to his older brother.

England rises to his feet and limps back into the main hall, grimacing at the sight of Wales. Unmoving but for the small rises and falls of his chest. The growing pool of blood almost looking like their countries mixing together. He staggers closer and drops to the floor, disregarding the blood and frantically trying to find a way to make their combined suffering stop.

“Wales.” England feels a tear slide down his cheek, it plops onto his brothers faces and dribbles useless down his neck. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Don’t touch me.” Wales’ voice is thin and laced with sobs. “If I’m going to die then let me do it in peace.”

England feels Wales try and push away from him, wincing with the effort as he slides into a sitting position and tries to scoot away.

“I only did it because I thought-” England stops himself, because he can’t admit, not even now, that he’d done it to try and force Éire to love him the most. A foolish plan concocted from the mind of a foolish little boy.

“I should have done better.” Wales sinks back onto his back, too tired to support his own weight

England feels all the hope drain from Wales’ voice, it starts to chime with things England remembers from the past.

“England, when I’m gone, you’ll be by yourself.” Wales paws his hand out, grasping Englands as tight as he can. “You must promise to be better.”

“I don’t want to be by myself.” England’s fingers tighten around his brothers, almost temped to drag him to his feet as he once did at Crecy. “I feel like I might be dying too.”

“You’re merely absorbing the parts of me that matter.” Wales laughs, it’s a hollow, awful sound. “The rest of me will fade to nothing, just like the rest of the Cymru before me.”

England remembers the fever his brother once had, the sickness caused by stealing the souls of others. A fever he’d experienced before but never as Wales did. He remembers that Wales could be just as awful as himself, once a cold blooded killer turned soft by time and guilt. “It’s not going to be like that again.” England says, eyes straining as pain takes over his entire lower body. “I’ll prove to you that I’m better than you think I am.”

And with that, England smears a circle of Wales’ blood onto his forehead.

A spell has come to his mind from the depths of time. It’s a spell that will change everything.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the war first started he’d imagined he’d never get used to the heavy booms of artillery fire, but then, he never imagined he’d ever be able to block out the scent of death, decaying bodies and fumes from mustard gas.

His hand does tremble slightly as he grips his knife, gently finishing the intricate carving on the butt of his rifle.

Another artillery shell strikes, closer this time, shaking the earthen trench they call home, almost knocking over the meagre gas lamps and pelting Wales with earth from the ceiling. His eyes dart upwards, getting ready to bolt should it show signs of collapse.

He’s heard horror stories from further up the lines, of their secret weapon, and how the tunnels that incase it sometimes -often- crumble, the men inside doomed. His heart breaks a little for each man lost, every Welshman, Englishman, Scot and Irishman.

Wales is beginning to think his heart also breaks for the soldiers of the axis, but to admit as much to himself, let alone his brothers, seems like treachery. Especially since he’s been doing a great deal of the killing of them through the scope of the sniper rifle in his grip.

His fingers tighten on it, a surge of mixed emotions. Wales hates this machine of death, but he loves it, loves the fact that his men can be protected. Loves the delicate carving of the two dragons on the handle, a spell of protection hidden deep within it’s design.

And a horrible part of him -one that rumbles louder than artillery fire, stinks a dozen times that of the worst flesh fuled smokes and burns brighter than all the fires than come with it- loves the act of killing. It’s a part of him he wishes he could suffocate.

“You doing alright in here, Kirkland?” The cheerful voice of Alistair rings out above the distant thrum of angry shells.

Wales raises his head to look to him, the man who holds him together, the perfect soldier, his firm features never dulling regardless of his freshly broken nose. His eyes never losing their lively twinkle no matter how much sleep he loses.

The smile Wales gives him must look a little off, because Allister avoids scampering on to his appointed task as he was likely intending, and steps into the dugout.

“Yes, Captain, everything is fine.” The promise is thin. Nothing is fine, and never will be fine ever again if this war, this apocalypse, is much to go by. All of Europe will be consumed by it, their kin suffocating on their own hate until only Germany stands, who will then be torn apart at his seams by those outside nations willing to avenge the death of their forebears.

Or so Wales surmises and dreams every night.

“Weren’t you to head home?” Alistair asks, neatening out his uniform then straightening his spine, his boots clicking together as if he might be standing to attention for the queen. “I heard so from Arthur that you and Angus were to-”

“Our brother has illusions of winning this war on his own,” Wales looks back down to his weapon and glares at it. “Angus and I refused to allow him the privilege.”

“I’d have taken it, fresh hands win wars.” Alistair mutters. “still, I-”

“Captain Bridges.” Irelands voice is clear through the din, though Wales might simply be honing in on it like a pigeon squab to it’s mothers distant coos. “We don’t win wars by standing around talking, do we?” His impersonation of England is spookily accurate, even the way he marches in through the door and pulls an expression of expectation, his nose angled just right as to look as pompous as the comedy allows.

“No, I suppose we don’t.”

The medics band on Ireland’s arm looks a little dull, stained as it is from too much work, his face blemished in spatters of blood, filth, and a fine spray of freckles that simply make him look more dirty than he actually is. His eyes tell tales of a broken spirit regardless of the cheerful act. His hair now starting to overgrow into a bed of dark curled weeds and a layer of stubble so thick as to soon be classed as a beard, which has now met the developing sideburns on his face, making him look his age.

His eyes, though they were never quite so bright as when they were children, are now sunken and haunted.

Wales hates the sight of his brother as much as he is compelled to adore him. it’s his limbs, Wales realises distantly, he’s much too skinny, not so bad as the famine, but still unhealthy.

He looks tired.

“Has anybody seen Francis?” Ireland questions suddenly. “I was to look over his wounds, see about sending him back off the France, the lucky bastard.”

Wales holds in the argument he feels stir within him that France is suffering, because Alistair isn’t clear on who -what- they are.

“I believe he was resting in the bunk room.” Alistair mumbles, sounding a little horrified by the recollection.

Wales doesn’t blame him, France eyes them all with such venom now, his wounds forever seeping and staining the tiny bunk through his silly blue uniform. Each wound cutting deeper than the one before it.

“I heard the Germans were close to-”

Ireland stops Alistair from carrying on with a firm look of disapproval. The kind of anger one can only produce from some deeply help love. The kind of love one feels for old allies who will soon turn to enemies, because to overtake the heart of a country, is to own them.

Wales thinks that Ireland might simply sympathise with that kind of pain, as Wales himself does too.

“Llewellyn.” Ireland mutters under his breath. “don’t suppose I can ask you to give me a hand?”

Wales accepts with a nod and stands. “As you were Captain Bridges.”

The handsome Englishman with the crooked nose nods and salutes gently, before carrying on down the line to whatever his intended task was. As soon as they’re alone Ireland fixes Wales in his sights.

“What do you need from me, Éire?” He asks, stepping closer to Irelands form, taking in each thin feature, each unnaturally hard line on his face. Each handsome feature and disturbingly harsh shadow.

“I already told you. We’re going to take a look at France while Scotland isn’t around.” His eyes trail out the door and his voice lowers. “An ally whos fallen under the control of an enemy is a bigger threat than the enemy could ever hope to be.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting…”

“It’s the only way forward. There’s a resistance brewing in his own lands. He’ll have that to hold onto. In these trenches he hasn’t much of anything.” Irelands eyes fall onto Wales, his mouth a thin, uneasy curve. “Besides, I hear we have a new visitor, I thought perhaps we should greet them together.”

“Who would--”

“Just come on.” Ireland tugs on Wales’ sleeve and Wales rises gently, his hand almost discarding his rifle. “And bring that, for fuck sake, if not for your own protection then to smack England around the face with.”

Wales obliges


End file.
